


A Wonderful Caricature of Intimacy

by ltskiki



Category: The Catcher in the Rye - J. D. Salinger
Genre: Depression, Gen, Oneshot, Pedophilia mention, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:34:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5008456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ltskiki/pseuds/ltskiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months later, life is shitty as usual</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wonderful Caricature of Intimacy

Apathetic.

That's the only thing Holden could think as he stared at the ceiling above his bed. That's what Phoebe had called him, apathetic. He knew the word, he had used it himself before, but he'd grabbed a dictionary from the study anyways.

'Apathetic [ap-uh-thet-ik] adjective.  
Not interested or concerned; indifferent or unresponsive'

Yeah. That was him. He felt a dissonance between himself and the rest of the world. Like everything else was just a little bit fuzzy, if he touched anything it would emit a soft buzz, like the hum of a bunch of wires. He could only concentrate inward, on his own body and mind. Right now he was hungry. His hand tingled and once in awhile a sharp pain would cause him to clench it loosely and eventually relent. But mostly, he wished he'd never come home.

Nothing frustrated Holden more than the fact he almost got away. He'd distanced himself, hadn't talked to his family in months; he was ready to make a quiet exit from their lives. At that time, he thought he'd find peace in a forest far away, or maybe the desert, with a lady that never made him small talk, she'd express her fears and opinions and anger or she'd'nt speak at all. Now he knew his story ended in the barrel of a gun or the loop of a rope. 

Nothing had really stopped him at the hotel. Yeah, he didn't want to end up with his blood on the coat of a pedophile, teeth pounded to dust by oxfords, but that wasn't the only way. Just as easily he could have found something, anything, to end his life quietly. Not out of respect for anyone, but out of spite for all those goddamn rubberneckers. The kind of folks that always had something to say. They see some roadkill flattened like a pancake on the tar and say 'would you look at that!' yet roll their windows all the way up to avoid the stench. Even when they spot some poor sonuvabitch begging on the street, just out of earshot they give some bullshit about the economy these days and how they have so much damn _sympathy_.

In reality, he was too tired. Holden Caulfield didn't give his little sis a second thought; he was just too depressed to even attempt offing himself. He was low as he'd been in awhile, that was for sure, but he hurt like hell and his pride hurt even more. No fucking way he'd give that Old Maurice the satisfaction of cleaning up his mess. 

Now he sat in his bedroom at 7pm, wanting nothing more than a quick release. He didn't give a shit, it was after dinner and he had nowhere to be tomorrow so his parents probably wouldn't even notice he was gone for awhile. Dazed by the sudden finality of his thoughts, he shuffled to the adjoining bathroom and shut the door.

Now Holden had never been high before, but he imagined this is what it felt like. He was acutely aware of how he was standing, the large bathtub on the left of him, the cupboard in front of it, and the unused straight razor in the middle drawer.

It was silver, very well made. His father gave it to him a little after his last birthday. "You're becoming a man." were his words. He didn't even need to shave. If it wasn't for his height and stern face, he could have passed for a twelve year old. Hell, he still felt like one.

Brushing away those thoughts, he turned on the faucets, pulling his shorts off in the same motion. It wasn't unusual to find him lying around in his drawers most of the time, he thought clothes of his style were much too restricting, and it wasn't like people didn't knock. He dug around the cupboard, his fingers finally clasping the razor. It was probably handmade. He was glad he hadn't used it. What a waste, to spend money on something that'd get all crumby with hair and dried soap. 

It fit in his hand well as he slipped into the water, letting it pull him in up to his chin. It was warm, but in a way that felt comfortable, not the kind that made you perspire after a period of time. He held his breathe until the water was calm. No sloshing; calm. It made him think about the ducks in the pond and how he knew the whole time where they went. Almost all birds fly South for the winter but he had nowhere to go because he wasn't a bird but he wasn't a man either.

The first slice was quick and hard, full of anger and it bled more than he thought and he started crying despite his qualms with anyone finding him before morning. This wasn't how his life was supposed to turn out. He was supposed to grow up and go to college, become a lawyer or a publisher and knock up some girl and move into a huge apartment. Now he's been kicked out of 7 schools, doesn't even know how to live on his own for 3 days. He blew all the money he had, got beat up and almost jumped out a building. Holden Caulfield wasn't meant to grow up.

He couldn't go through with it. All the helplessness and pain and _whining_  and he couldn't finish the job. He watched the water turn orange and pulled the plug for a few minutes so he could silence himself with the tap without overflowing the tub. Then he did the most peculiar thing.

He did it again. He drug the straight razor across the same arm, this time horizontally, without as much pressure. It hurt, it hurt like hell, but he supposed that was the mark of an adult. To face pain and not fall apart; to keep going with a straight face no matter what. He said this to himself as he allowed a few more cuts, relishing the lightheadedness but knowing he shouldn't lose more blood. He'd bleed out, like those guys in the war who get their legs blown up by mines and just lay there until all the blood gushes out of their systems. He imagined them getting stepped on and going flat like a whoopee cushion.

Finally, he pulled the plug a final time and wisked the blade in the water a few times, wiping it on a dark grey towel. Opening the cabinet again, he slid it back into place and grabbed a roll of gauze. Hastily, he wrapped it around his lower arm, ripping it with his teeth and folding it in on itself. The slight tinge of red made him feel proud. 'Those dumb Japs,' he thought, amusing himself. Trying to kill Old Caulfield with samurai swords. He was stronger than that, his bleach-blonde dame at his side and a mutt on the other. A hero. 

What a crock of Hollywood crap. He pulled on his underwear, not bothering to wipe himself off, and returned to his bedside. There was a great big textbook on his nightstand, public school sure loved those big ass books. There was a geometry test on Monday, but he didn't much feel like studying; he might not even go. He supposed he liked the change of scenery; he could see Phoebe as much as he wanted, and skipping was a lot easier without roommates pestering him. His parents finally realized he probably shouldn't be living on his own for awhile, and while he was annoyed with their concern, he knew they were right.

Just a little less than two years and he supposed he'd have to go somewhere else, whether it be college, the Army, or Hell. It terrified him, but he found comfort in the wetness on his forearm, knowing escape was just a quick wash away.


End file.
